“Why is that moklek still following us?” asked Sir Hereward, who had narrowly avoided being crushed by the pachyderm’s leap.
“I asked her to,” said Mister Fitz. “As I said, she could be very useful. Time for the declaration. We have a few minutes now, I doubt the godlet is aware of our presence, it being fixated on a swift exit from the harbor.”
The starboard oars sank in and pushed again. The mooring ropes snapped with cracks like gunshots, and the hexareme wallowed far enough away from the jetty for the portside oars to come out, again propelled by energistic tendrils.
Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz reached into pocket and pouch and brought out silk armbands, which they slipped over their arms, above the elbow. Sorcerous symbols began to shine upon the cloth, brighter than the moon. Then man and puppet spoke together:
“In the name of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, acting under the authority granted by the Three Empires, the Seven Kingdoms, the Palatine Regency, the Jessar Republic, and the Forty Lesser Realms, we declare ourselves agents of the Council. We identify the godlet manifested … uh …”
Sir Hereward paused and looked at Mister Fitz, who carried on, the man echoing the puppet’s words a moment later.
“Aboard this vessel as an unknown, but listed entity under the Treaty, as proven by its dire actions upon innocents. Consequently, the said godlet and all those who assist it are deemed to be enemies of the World and the Council authorizes us to pursue any and all actions necessary to banish, repel, or exterminate the said godlet.”
“You’re not insurance agents,” said Tira. Her hood had come slightly unstuck in the race to the ship and slipped backwards, showing more of her face. She looked even younger than she had previously.
“You could say we are,” replied Mister Fitz. “After a fashion.”
“In any case, you’ll get your share of the ivories,” said Hereward, thinking he correctly judged the fleeting expression that crossed Tira’s eyes and flattened her mouth. “Presuming we survive.”
The ship lurched sternwards as the oars on both sides moved in unison, a clumsy, lurching progress that made the deck tilt one way and then the other, with every part of the old ship groaning and screeching in turn.
“We won’t get far like this,” said Sir Hereward. “I doubt this tub has been out in anything but a dead calm for years, and going in the right direction at that. Where is the godlet? And what’s to stop its sucking the life out of us as we approach?”
“It is underneath us,” said Mister Fitz. “In the center of the ship, on the middle deck. As long as it keeps rowing, it will have no energy to spare for dehydrative assaults.”
“And if it stops rowing?” asked Tira.
“The ship will probably sink,” said Sir Hereward, who didn’t like the feel of the deck under his feet. The planks were shifting sideways, the hull clearly lacked rigidity, and it was already down a foot or more at the stern, not so much piercing the small harbor waves as plowing into them. “It is moot whether it will turn turtle as soon as we pass the mole, or be driven under stern first.”
“We must get the ivories before then,” said Mister Fitz. “If the ship does sink, the godlet will realize that it can simply walk on the floor of the sea. For the moment, it is still imprinted with Montaul’s view of the world and his human limitations.”
“Is it weak enough for you to banish it with your needle?” asked Sir Hereward. “We distract it, while you get close enough?”
“I fear not,” said Mister Fitz. “Rather we must secure the ivory figurine that anchors it, bring it up here, and have Moonray Pallidskin Helterskelter III step on it.”
Sir Hereward followed the flick of the puppet’s eyeballs to the left, indicating their animal companion.
“You mean the moklek?”
“It is one sure means of destruction for such things,” said Mister Fitz. “To be trodden on by an albino moklek. That is why I said it was an opportunity. Considerably more convenient than our original plan to take the ivories to the fire pools of Shundalar, and cheaper than committing them to the priests of the Infallible Index to be stored without hope of retrieval. Though it would be even better if our friend here had silver shoes, that speeds the process—”
“How you do know her name?” interrupted Sir Hereward.
“It is carved on her right tusk,” said the puppet. “That is her pedigree name. But there is a name on her left tusk, which I suspect she prefers. Rosie.”
The moklek raised her trunk and gave a short, soft trumpet. Almost as if in answer, a red rocket suddenly shot up from the fort on the mole, followed by two cannon blasts.
“Not so swift on the alarm,” said Sir Hereward, eyeing the rocket’s trajectory with professional interest. When not engaged directly in the elimination of inimical godlets, he was a mercenary officer of artillery. “And their powder is damp. That rocket should have gone twice as high.”
“Even with damp powder, the idiots in the fort might hit us if they decide to shoot,” said Tira. “It is close enough.”
“So how do we get to the ivories?” asked Sir Hereward, grabbing at a rail and wincing as the oars sank again to drive the ship backwards, and a particularly nasty groan came from the timbers below, the vessel shivering down its whole length as it was propelled too fast into the swell. They were already a good hundred yards out from the quay and heading into brisker waters away from the protection of the mole. “I presume it keeps them close, and even if the thing is rowing for dear life, I don’t fancy just strolling in on a desiccating inimical godlet.”
“I suggest you and Tira climb over the sides and go in through the oar ports on the deck above it—”
“There are huge oars going up and down in those ports,” interrupted Tira. “We would be crushed.”
“It has already broken a number of oars, or they were broken before, so there are empty ports,” said Mister Fitz. “Choose carefully, climb down, swing in. I will cast a nimbus on your weapons that will allow them to engage the energistic tendrils of the godlet. As you hack and slash them away from the oars, it will disrupt the rowing, and the entity will have to fight back. While it is distracted fighting you on the upper deck, I will sneak in on the middle deck where it lies, gather the ivories, and bring them up here, where Rosie will stomp on them.”
“The fourteen ivories you mentioned,” said Tira. “Not the others.”
“Indeed,” said Mister Fitz, who did not lie but did not always tell the truth.
“So there will be a few inches of rotten worm-eaten oak between us and the main presence of the godlet?” mused Sir Hereward. “That is better than I feared. Do you wish to take the port or starboard side, Tira?”
“Neither,” said the thief. “But having come this far, and waiting a year already for my Fifth Circle testing—”
“Fifth Circle?” asked Sir Hereward. “At this rate we will discover you were only apprenticed yesterday.”
“Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, a haul such as these ivories will grant me rapid advancement,” said Tira nonchalantly. “I will take the port side.”
“Hold out your weapons and look away,” said Mister Fitz.
They did so. The sorcerous needle flared, a flash of light illuminating the deck as if lightning had struck the stumpy mast above them. When they looked back, the needle was once again closed in Fitz’s hand, and the blades of dagger and knives glowed with shimmering blue light, like a Wintertide pudding in burning brandy, only somewhat more impressive.
“A word of advice,” said Sir Hereward to Tira. “Ikithan spider silk does not stick when subjected to seawater.”